Tell me now so I know
by onion.sun
Summary: Ariadne approaches the Mark, even though she shouldn't. Takes place after the job.
1. Chapter 1

_Well, I don't know where to start:) After seeing Inception last week I thought about writing a fanfic and here I am doing just that. It's not hard to get inspired by such a mesmerising movie. I chose to write about my favourite characters. I hope you enjoy it. You could leave a review and tell me what you think:)_

_Tell me now so I know _

_There are so many things that I could do_

_If you tell me now then I know what to do_

_Tell me now so I know..._

Holly Golightly - Tell me now so I know

/

It was a perfect day for a funeral. The sky was turning into a sickly grey. The trees had no colour. The sun had died. But it wasn't that kind of funeral.

This funeral belonged to a man she did not know personally.

She had never even seen him on TV.

The crowd of photographers and reporters in the graveyard.

They looked ready to bite from the man's own flesh. They didn't care what they were doing as long as they were in the middle of things.

Everyone was wearing dark shades and black coats.

She was watching from a considerable distance. There was no point for her to be there. In fact, if she recalled well, she was not even allowed to be there.

She should have been somewhere else.

The wind was dry. The summer wind was dead. She collected the last green leaves under her dirty boots.

The sound of cameras was vaguely similar to termites biting into old wood.

Robert Fischer threw the first clod of earth over the casket.

His face was full of pain and love. Ariadne knew that they were the only reason he still loved his father.

She wished that the bishop would not fall. If this was a dream, it would make sense. But as it was, she saw Robert's death, not his father's.

His godfather was standing further in the back, weeping quietly (maybe even not weeping) in a handkerchief.

It was official; she had ruined his one good relationship. Robert would go through life alone and helpless, separated from the man that cared for him.

A choir of children started singing as the priest initiated the service. An old woman was clinging to Robert's arm, sobbing hysterically. Robert was patting her on the shoulder reluctantly.

He had a small, resigned smile on his face. It spoke a lot more than the sobs.

Ariadne put on her own dark shades. She felt a false tear slipping down her cheek (only one) and she wanted to hide it, just in case.

The summer wind was dead.

* * *

She thought it would take entire months, maybe a year, before the grave would be deserted. But it happened in three weeks.

In three weeks, she visited most of Los Angeles. Until she was sick of it. Sick of its nice shady trees, its soft, wet beaches, its buildings that would never touch the sky.

Her buildings always touched the sky. It was a given thing. If they didn't, she tore them apart, block by block. Until only cinder was left. And maybe some lost thoughts.

This place, busy as it was, offered her only dark times. There were moments when she simply sat in her hotel room, next to the window, looking at the kidney-shaped pool in the back yard and the airplanes taking off on the runway.

After three weeks, she decided to visit the grave. She bought a dozen red roses and made sure to wear a black dress and black shoes.

She went to see the dead man late in the evening, close to midnight.

Ariadne found no one at the grave. She placed the bouquet in front of his headstone.

She touched the engraved words. Wonderful Father and Extraordinary Leader. Then some bleak numbers that showed the span of his life. There was also a picture of him, smiling expectantly into the camera. He was flashing his teeth it all he was shaking with rage and fear. Had he ever suspected that this picture would crown his grave? When he had taken it ( such a long time ago), had he thought of using this picture for his grave? Had he given any thought to his death and the picture he would use to put on his grave? Had he ever thought it wasn't good enough?

'I wish you could be like we imagined you to be,' she whispered, remembering the dream.

'Excuse me, did you know him?'

She jumped back when she heard the voice. Even though there was only the light from the lamppost some steps away, she knew who he was, because he would be the only one here at this hour, besides her.

'A little bit,' she replied, looking down.

Robert Fischer walked closer to her.

'I haven't seen anyone at his grave for a while,' he said.

'I'm sorry about that,' she whispered.

'At least there is one,' he said smiling sadly, pointing at her. 'Where did you know him from?'

She rummaged her brain for a good enough excuse. The right words wouldn't come to her. She had been silent about it for so long that talking now seemed like an impossible feat.

'I dreamt of him once...after watching him on TV,' she said. It was not a complete lie.

In fact, it was the most honest thing she could tell him.

'You _dreamt_ of him?' he asked, intrigued. He thought it must be some kind of joke.

'Yes. I don't know why. I saw him once or twice, but his eyes stuck to my mind,' she said.

She actually meant what she had said. When she went to bed each night, she saw Robert's sad, watery eyes and his eyes were his father's eyes.

Robert stared at her with the expression of a man that was trying hard to believe what she was saying.

'I was curious why his eyes had such a powerful effect, so I tried to know more about him. I wanted to talk to him. Then I found out he died. So I came to show my regrets,' she replied.

Robert frowned, unable to say anything to that. It seemed to honest to be doubted. A part of him wanted to know more about her.

'You brought red roses. And you are wearing black,' he observed.

'Yes, I guess I was late for the funeral,' she mumbled.

'I'm his son, Robert Fischer,' he said extending his hand. She took it hesitantly and shook it.

'I guessed as much. You have his eyes,' she observed, nodding.

He held her hand in his, mystified.

'And you are?'

'Ariadne,' she replied.

He waited patiently for her last name. But it never really came. Maybe she whispered it, he couldn't tell. Just when he was about to ask her she opened her mouth.

'I think I have to go now. But it was nice meeting you,' she said, smiling. He saw her teeth glittering in the soft light but nothing else. He wanted to see her face.

She walked away and he followed her. When they reached the corner of the street he could finally see her auburn hair and her large dark eyes, that expression of curiosity mixed with kindness, the inexistent but yet persistent smile at the corner of her lip.

Her face reminded him of something comforting. He remembered seeing that face in a dream.

Just like she had seen his father's eyes.

'Wait,' he said grabbing her arm. 'Would you...like to get some coffee?'

'Um, I don't think...'

'I'd just like to talk to someone. I haven't done that in...months.'

'Oh, you need to talk to someone?' she asked, kindness seeping into her voice again. 'But I'm a stranger. You know nothing about me.'

'You're the only other person who has visited him in a while,' he said pointing at the grave. 'I'd rather talk to you.'

She shuffled her feet.

Robert's grief was doing strange things to him. In the beginning, he couldn't even share a cab with a stranger and now he wanted to go have coffee with one.

'Really? Because I might bore you.'

He had heard that line before. He just couldn't remember where.

'I doubt you could. So... how about coffee, on me?'

'I prefer tea,' she replied meekly, holding on to her black scarf like it was the last pole before the tornado came and whisked her away.

'Tea is good with me,' he replied, not smiling, just smiling with his eyes.

They slowly walked away from the graveyard into the dark, summer wind that was dead.

The city had its lights on.


	2. Chapter 2

_As promised, here is the second chapter to this small story. Thank you all so much for your kind comments and for thinking of this pair. I hope you like this new chapter, I put a lot of feeling into it. _

_Hear me out_  
_Day follows day_  
_Light turns to clay in my hands_

_How to explain,_  
_So pristine the pain_  
_It was kindness made the cut so clean_

_I still care for you_

/

Ray Lamontagne - I still care for you

The rose wood table was too small.

It was too small because their fingers were in danger of touching across the clean, chipped surface, which would be odd. The distance between each other was short so that she could extend her hand and check if his shirt was really cashmere, which would again be odd. You can't feel the fabric of a stranger's shirt.

Everything about the cafe seemed out of place. The wallpaper was a muddy yellow and there were pink lilies painted at the corners. They looked like burnt skin. It was a bit unnerving. It made you think it was a make-shift place. A place of odds and ends left behind.

The place smelt like rosemary. The sound of waves breaking into pieces of china silkily circled the room.

Ariadne tried her best to listen, although it was proving hard to keep her mind completely focused. Bits of her late-night ruminations crammed her mind with useless information. Also, the fear; the fear that someone would point their finger at her and call her 'Guilty' and that in a moment he would find out she was a cruel person, a criminal. She had to juggle the guilt with the care.

Robert Fischer was telling her about his father. He was telling her about the man when he was younger, when he didn't have so much on his mind. There had been times when his father had been entirely new, not old, not consumed by life. He knew those times well enough to relish in them as if they were his possessions.

It almost seemed like his father's life was his own; he knew it by heart. She was inclined to think he knew his father better than he had known himself.

There were little details hidden in his memory: how his father used to take his afternoon cigar with a cup of cold milk, how he used to tie his shoelaces with two ribbons, or how he used to write thank-you letters to everyone, even for the most insignificant gift. He had written Robert several. He knew half of them like poetry, but sometimes he added his own words to them.

What he was sharing with her was personal only for him. There was nothing mentioned about his affairs or the businesses, nothing that would interest a journalist or a reporter, nothing material or of great informational value. Ariadne was very glad about that. She liked these accounts better, because they told a true story.

Her palm was almost glued to her hot cup and when she raised her hand to get something out of her eye, she saw red marks on it and a couple of drops of hot water.

Robert handed her a napkin quietly and she received it gladly, smiling shyly.

'He had a watch collection too. Unfortunately, he left that to my godfather,' he mentioned rather resentfully. His voice had a modicum of jealousy in it, like he felt it was not fair for that man to be so honoured by his father. Still, at the end of the sentence, he wavered slightly, as if to say, his godfather was not altogether a terrible man and his father had not been entirely wrong in his judgement of him.

Ariadne pressed the napkin to her mouth a bit, trying to hide an incriminating, self-inflicted smile, as her eyes sighed. It was true that Inception had worked, at least on this level. There were other levels, but she couldn't possibly know about them too much, only Robert, in the hidden pools of his mind could have a key to what they held.

The immense space of thought that had taken one man to change his mind. It was immense indeed.

It was like the ceiling disappearing and suddenly the room would have no roof, no end and they could look up and everything could come in and they could come into everything.

But looking at the ceiling, you'd see a huge, red lamp. That's what she saw.

'Watches are sort of depressing anyway,' she replied, not knowing exactly what to say.

'Why?' he asked, taking a sip of his cup.

'Because they always remind you that the present moment has passed.'

He bent his head, trying to perceive something on her face that wasn't there.

'That makes sense. It sounds about right. Are you a writer by chance?'

'No,' she said, laughing shorly. 'An architect.'

'Architect. You're lucky. There was a time when I wanted to pursue that.'

'There was?'

'Yes.'

'But you quit?'

'Yes, I quit,' he said, no morsel of regret in his tone though. 'I lost interest half-way through (it isn't quite true). It was the logical thing to quit.'

Meaning to change the subject quickly, he smiled and added:

'Good thing you're not a reporter, though.'

'A reporter?' she asked confused, before realisation dawned on her quickly.

'Oh,' she voiced meekly, 'I probably wouldn't have bothered with your case, if I was one. I read in the newspaper about a sex scandal involving a senator. I'd probably be hunting that.'

'You don't look like the type to be hunting for _that_ kind of story. You _do _look like the type of reporter who would talk to mourning relatives.'

'You're mistaken, I never talk to mourning people, they make me very sad. They remind me of the end.'

'So then, why were you in a cemetery in the first place?'

'It was personal, not work, like you inferred by calling me a reporter. I make exceptions for personal things.'

'But why was it really personal?'

'Well, because it involved (me) my dreams and that's personal to me. I wanted to know why I was dreaming of you(r) (father).'

She wanted to say you, but then she would have to explain and it would be harder to lie about him.

'Why do you think you were dreaming of him?'

'Like I said, I don't really know. Something about his eyes and his countenance reminded me of something (of you). I saw him a couple of times and it was different.'

'What do you mean?' he asked, raising an eyebrow.

'I mean, in my dreams he had a bigger impact on me than in the flesh (and I mean you again)'.

'Come again?'

'In my dreams, he affected me more. When I woke up, I felt a need to go find him (and I really mean you). And when I found him, on the TV or at some public hearing, the feeling was not quite the same. I mean, I felt I wouldn't be affected anymore, because I had seen him and it was nothing strange, but then the following nights it would be different. I am puzzled by it.'

'I am more. It is very strange, in any case. I've never heard of something like it. Did you ever at least talk to him?'

'No (yes, right now).'

'Well, I'm sorry you didn't get a chance,' Robert said, meaning sympathy, although his eyes showed slight and poisonous suspicion.

To allay his fears for a while, Ariadne came up with a convenient fact.

'He might remind me of my father. He died some years ago (which was true). They had the same air and manner of speaking. Maybe I'm trying to bring him back this way.'

Robert's shoulders seemed to relax a bit. He smiled a sad smile that one would give when forming a bond of grief.

'But _he _is dead now too. So there's nothing to bring back now,' she mumbled.

'How did he die, your dad?'

'Heart attack,' she replied, placing the napkin between them, precariously.

'Oh, I see. So it was similar,' he said, his brows forming a deep line. 'I'm sorry.'

'It's no one's fault. That's how things go in life, people die and others live on, regardless.'

'Some say the dead live on through us,' he remarked.

'That might be true, but that's hardly enough. It's just a way to comfort ourselves. It's a way of saying death isn't all about dying; that there's a living part to it. But there isn't.'

'There isn't, indeed,' he agreed, taking a sip.

A pretty, freckled young girl wearing a grey apron approached them with a weary, worn smile. She was holding two glasses.

'I am sorry, but I will have to ask you to leave shortly, we are closing,' she informed them.

The two looked at each other briefly in mute agreement and nodded their heads.

'I guess we forgot about that,' she said, smiling. 'It is very late anyways. You'd better go home and get some sleep.'

She said this while taking out some money from her purse.

Robert watched her confused. He had already taken out some bills.

'Don't bother yourself, I am paying,' he said casually.

'Oh, no, I would like to pay. It's enough I almost scared you with my strange story about your father, it's the least I could do.'

'You did not scare me at all. It was kind of you to go see my father, regardless of your reasons. And your story isn't as peculiar as you say it is. _I_ would like to pay. I was the one who proposed the talk anyway.'

After some more debate, she finally let him pay and have his final word.

'I hope our talk helped, at least a little,' she mentioned hastily, as if she would mention the weather outside. Her usual anxiety about (helping) people kicked in more strongly than usual. It was a secret instinct of hers to embrace those in need of it, even when they did not need it.

Or at least give them a reassuring smile that said 'we're the only ones on this planet, we'd better stick together.'

This was the kind of smile she was giving him now, throwing it to him, like a safety net, apologising, softly, about everything.

If the words didn't come out, it was alright, because if he had looked thoroughly at her face, he would have seen her remorse.

But presently, he just heard her hoping the talk had helped.

'It did, actually. I needed to do that. I hadn't talked to anyone about him.'

'That's terrible. You always need someone to talk to about such things.'

'Even a complete and total stranger?'

(but not quite)

'Especially with a stranger, who can't judge you... Although it's hard to find a stranger who will listen,' she replied.

'And that's where you came in. I guess I should be grateful.'

The door to the cafe rang shut behind them as a gust of wind blew up the carton sign over their heads. It made the sound of a wild animal, running.

The entire street seemed like a wild animal, running.

The lights inside were shut and the blackness of her dress moulded with that of the walls and shadows, so that, if he looked at her, he saw only a face.

It was a white, tired (but constantly awake, sleepless) face that looked almost blue, in the light of the neon.

The half-bright, half-sighing eyes looked like two cold and gentle brown pearls, resting at the bottom of a sea that had no sky, no sun.

That's why her eyes didn't judge, because they did not know the rational, cutting light of the sun piercing the sea and revealing its emptiness.

She only saw the fullness.

He felt he liked that in her eyes, although as he looked at her, he was not conscious he even liked her eyes or what he liked about them.

'I should go now. It was very nice meeting you though. I am glad we talked,' she said, raising her hand to shake his.

He took her hand like it was one of the thank-you letters his father used to write (but this one, not addressed to him) and squeezed it lightly, as if he wanted to take that small life she had offered him and hide it for himself. That's how he reacted to kind people, especially kind people who were kind for no particular reason.

'Thank you, it was nice meeting you as well,' he replied. He was about to let go, but he remembered something and arrested the moment a bit.

'But – you never told me your last name,' he said precipitately.

'Oh, you don't need it,' she said, off-handedly.

'Why not? How would I contact you again?'

'Oh, why would you contact me again? We just had one talk and you know nothing about me.'

'Well, it's _because _I know nothing about you. Wouldn't it be fair to find out? After all, you and I both have something in common; my father. I don't usually have that in common with many people.'

'If you are trying to find out more about your father, you won't get it through me, unfortunately,' she said, feeling as the words dropped out of her mouth that she had said something harsh and maybe stupid, but equally true, nonetheless. Robert felt it as well, but he couldn't bring himself to admit anything. His mind was stuck on an idea.

'There is no way of knowing what I might find out. But I'd like to know more anyway,' he said ambiguously.

Ariadne felt that the wild animal was urging her to run. The street was paving her way home and it would be a safe journey, away from the mark, away from discovery. Snuck in her bed, with the pillow behind her, she would be no one again (to him).

But the guilt – because it was her guilt – stopped her in her motion because she was responsible – responsible for his need. She had deprived him of a friend (the godfather). She had been the one who indirectly had made him seek out a stranger in the night, so it was her fault he wanted to know more.

It was her fault if he discovered her, because she had willed the discovery by depriving him of warmth and implanting something foreign and beautiful (indeed), but cold inside.

Beautiful things, like a cup of cold milk with a cigar, were certainly worthwhile, but the milk was cold and the idealisation of a father was just a statue, an effigy, built from lies of concrete that had an artistic sway, but a naked smile, a cruel embrace.

So she stayed.

'Well, if you insist on _knowing __more_, then I can only tell you...my name is Ariadne Trenton.'

There. She had bravely put herself out in the open, for the hunters to shoot mercilessly. Now she was a bit more vulnerable.

It was only fair for him to get something in return. (and yet something so small)

'Trenton? Not the most suitable last name, but then again, I can't think of a name to go with Ariadne,' he admitted, smiling gratefully, although the smile was half-washed by the shadows of the neon lights.

'Me neither,' she replied, releasing a breath. 'But I can't get rid of it.'

He acknowledged the fact by thinking of his own coarse, yet invaluably fragile name.

'Well, maybe I will see you again sometime soon,' he said after some moments of thought.

She would have said 'I would like that' but then it would have been worse than it was now.

'Maybe,' she replied, 'maybe not.'

'Maybe you'll come see my father again.'

'I will...'

The words slipped out of her mouth before she could place them back in her thoughts. She had said that out of reflex, because she always said those kinds of things, because why wouldn't she visit a poor man's grave, why wouldn't she be **kind** (her downfall)?

'Good then, maybe I will see you there,' he said, squeezing her hand again for the last drop, before they said goodnight to each other in a concluding manner and each parted, their own way.

Ariadne watched Robert walk away briskly, one foot behind the other, one foot longing to stop and linger on the pavement instead of moving towards an uncertain future. His stride appeared a sleep-walker's promenade.

And she herself walked with such easiness, such lack of regrets and yet everything pointed at her and said 'Guilty'.

Robert looked back himself and saw a young girl running like a wild animal.


End file.
